


Think of Your Friends (And Pray For Sunrise)

by Lexebug



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Child Abuse, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Trans Character, Trans Dave Strider, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-23 14:26:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 19,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13789629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexebug/pseuds/Lexebug
Summary: David Clarence Strider-Egbert has a happy ending waiting for him. But it's a long while away.Chapters will be posted like. Sometime. Idk. One of the constant themes in this fic is severe physical and verbal/emotional abuse, and it's present very often. Please be wary of that if that's one of your triggers.Title comes from TAZ because someone (@platinumbered) is a huge fuckin nerd and also helped me think of the title.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> woioooooh FUCK! hell yeah!

Dawn was five years old, sitting on the bathroom floor with tear tracks drying in sticky, uncomfortable paths down her cheeks. One shaky hand on her throat, holding it loosely. There was a thin scratch on it, a light red line lacing across, no thicker than a blade of grass. She scrambled to aching feet, dragging her small stool across the bathroom floor and climbing on so she could gaze into the mirror. Watery red eyes. Black hair in twin ponytails, tacky with drying blood. Red dripping down her neck. She mopped at it with a piece of toilet paper, trying to choke back a sob. Crying had been what got her into this mess, so not crying would get her out. Right? She fiddled hopelessly with one of the new tears in her favorite dress, and failed to hold back the tears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wow this shit again, im sad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof

Dawn was six years old, and wondering why her teacher looked so worried. “Miss? Are you okay?” She asked, tugging on the long skirt her teacher wore. It was so pretty, delicate patterns tracing across it.

“Dawn, honey, can you tell me again what you just told me? About your brother?” Her voice was wavering, big brown eyes (Dawn always thought they just looked like a deer’s eyes) fixed on her. Maybe Dawn was the deer in the headlights now.

“Uh, okay. He took me to the roof for one of our strifes, last night, and one’a my cuts from it still hurts; I’m not good at bandaging ‘em yet, but Bro said I had to do this one myself. I wanted to know if I could go to the nurse’s office and get another Band-Aid?” Her teacher nodded, walking to the wall phone and pressing the button, before whispering something into it. Dawn skipped off down the hall, imagining she had that pretty skirt her teacher was wearing. 

When she came back, sporting a brand-new Mickey Mouse Band-Aid on her upper arm, her teacher was muttering under her breath, scribbling furiously on a Post-It. She looked up, flashing a concerned grin. “Dawn, you’re back? How’s your arm?” 

“It’s much better! Bro’ll be happy.” Something in her teacher’s gaze wavered at the mention of Bro, something Dawn couldn’t quite place.

“Okay, Dawn, you’re going to have some special guests tonight, okay? At your apartment. They’re friends of mine, and they want to talk to your Bro.” Dawn perked up, bouncing on the balls of her feet. 

“That sounds fun! Can they teach me how to take care’a my cuts the right way? If they’re friends with you, they’ll be really smart!” Her teacher nodded jerkily, then turned back to her Post-It. Dawn sat back down at the carpet, pulling a big picture book from the shelf, her favorite one about dinosaurs. 

“Bro, I’m home!” Dawn hip-checked the door closed behind her, dumping her backpack next to the shoerack, which was suspiciously empty. There were never shoes in it, of course, but normally there was a smuppet or two hanging out there, or Cal was there to greet her when she got home. Weird. “Bro?” She called out into the quiet apartment; this was when he would come to say hi. She trotted into the kitchen and saw Bro leaning against the counter, a bottle of water clenched in his fist. “Hey Bro!” The kitchen was weirdly empty. No puppets hanging out around the counters, the microwave was empty, the katana that used to bar the fridge handles was missing. He didn’t turn to look at her, but his grip on the bottle tightened fractionally. “Bro?” 

“So, you thought it was a good idea to tell?” He asked, voice even. 

“Tell what?” He was mad, he was very mad, this wasn’t good. He cranked his head around to stare at her, shades gleaming in the fluorescent light. 

“Do you know who came to visit me today, Dawn?” She brightened, bouncing up and down happily. 

“Yeah! My teacher’s friends came to say hi, right? Are they nice?” She cast a glance around the apartment; they must be gone already. “I wish I coulda said hi!” Bro squeezed the bottle harder, and water squirted out. Dawn took a cautious step backward, hands held out defensively.

“CPS came to say hi, Dawn. Do you know what CPS stands for?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer, launching into his next sentence with a scarcely-hidden flame in his voice. “It stands for Child Protective Services, Dawn. You told someone I was hurting you?” Dawn nodded, confused.

“I asked to go to the nurse’s to get a new Band-Aid since my old one was getting gross. My teacher asked about the cut, and I told her how I got it. Why? What did I do wrong?” Bro took a step towards her, and his hand moved. Before she could get out of the way, he had a hand pressed to her sternum, pinning her to the wall. There was a sword in his other hand, blade shivering with the speed it had been unsheathed.

“You can’t tell her we do this. You can’t tell anyone, Dawn. You want to get taken away from me? You want to lose me, and have it be all your fault?” He hissed, orange glinting like steel behind his shades. She shook her head, feet scrabbling for purchase on the ground that was just a bit too far. He dropped her and she stumbled on the floor, trying to find her footing. “I can make your life a living hell, kid. But if you listen to me, it’s all gonna be sunshine and fuckin’ roses. Got it?” The sword came down in a quick slash, but it was deep, stinging hard against her leg. She could feel blood seeping through her pants, and Bro barked out a laugh. Dawn did her best to laugh with him. Then she excused herself to the bathroom and tore off her pants, sopping hopelessly at the mess of blood on her left thigh with a wad of toilet paper. She wiped away tears and pressed on the slash, trying frantically to stem the blood. Her vision was swimming, and she desperately wished her teacher’s friends were here, to teach her how to do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof?


	3. Chapter 3

Dawn was eight years old, and holding hands with a puppet. Specifically, the worst puppet in the world, Lil Cal. Bro handed her a plate with a massive slice of ice cream cake, a rare treat to have proper food in the house, and grinned widely. “Eat up, kiddo, we’ve got your special birthday strife comin’ up next.” Dawn smiled and tried to hide her shudder of fear, shoving a spoonful of cake into her mouth instead. Easier than arguing. Bro handed her a long, wrapped present, and she grabbed for it eagerly, smearing ice cream across the back of her hand as she wiped her face hastily before tearing open the wrapping paper. A brand-new katana, properly sharpened, a gleaming black hilt and shining silver blade. A work of art. Cal put his hand on her shoulder, and Dawn shrugged it off in favor of examining her sword. It almost made it easier to ignore the stinging pain of Bro’s sword later that day, and thoughts of her own sword gave her the strength to lie again to her teacher about why she came into school with gauze wrapped around most of her body. She wasn’t sure how much the teacher had believed, but who cared? There was a sword hanging above her bed, ice cream cake in the freezer, and only a few more scars to show for it. A good birthday if she’d ever seen one.


	4. Chapter 4

Dawn was nine years old and perched on the tattered couch, Bro’s laptop balanced on her knee. She’d get in so much trouble if he found her like this, but he was (supposedly) out buying groceries, so she was safe for now. Her new friends at school had told her about this awesome website, Pesterchum, where you could talk to anyone, and have a kickass screen name and everything. She was going to get on, and she was going to find someone awesome to talk to. turntechGodhead was online, and the internet had better watch the fuck out because-oh god someone was pestering her. Someone wanted to speak with her. Someone with lovely blue text and a handle that said they were named “ghostyTrickster” and that sounded like a trustworthy name, so Dawn sent a message.

\-- ghostyTrickster [GT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 16:13 --

GT: hey! I saw you were new to pesterchum, and so am i, so hi! my name is john!

TG: sup john. sorry to say my name is a matter of national security, cant tell you. its classified.

GT: aww, that sucks! now we cant really be chums :(. Anyway, [NAME REDACTED], as i guess im gonna have to call you, what’s up? what have you been doing?

Dawn had mostly been getting some first-hand experience in stopping bleeding in wounds, but that sounded a little morbid.

TG: you know. fighting with the bro, being cool as hell. wbu?

Was that smooth? Too smooth, maybe? God, first impressions were hard.

GT: ha ha, i know how you feel! or, at least about the fighting thing. My dad keeps making cakes, like, nonstop. I can’t get him to quit! 

That wasn’t what Dawn had in mind, but you know, whatever.

GT: what do you do for fun?

TG: you know. cool guy shit. I like to rap sometimes, study the blade, all that shit.

GT: dang, you sound awesome! I mostly watch movies and eat cake, ha ha! Have you ever watched con air, by the way? If you havent, youre missing out!

Dawn spent the next hour messaging back and forth with this rando from the internet, and it was amazing. Until the familiar sound of a sword sliding out of its sheath greeted her, and she froze.

TG: gotta go

Those injuries took a long time to patch up, but it was worth it. She wondered if John had messaged her after that; she’d shut down the computer hopefully before Bro could see what she was doing, but still.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dysphoria warning

Dawn was ten years old, and had met two other people through Pesterchum; Jade and Rose. Both were amazing, so nice and funny and far better friends than her school friends. Solid friends for a year now, each of them. She’d pester them during recess breaks on the school computers, and when Bro wasn’t home she used the laptop. Whenever she could be, she was talking to one of them, or to John. She was distracted recently, though, because something was...off. Something with her. She couldn’t quite put a finger on it except yes, she could, she most definitely could. It was her chest. It hurt. The puberty book the school librarian had passed out to all the girls assured Dawn that what she was feeling in her ‘breasts’ was normal, that it was all part of becoming a woman. Well, she thought it was bullshit. Whatever was going on in her chest was supposedly normal, but what was happening in her head most certainly was not. She wanted those things off her chest, immediately. Most girls aren’t supposed to feel like that, or at least, that was the impression she got.

John wasn’t all that helpful. He managed to be even more clueless than usual, telling her to ask Bro about it, which was a ludicrous suggestion to anyone who knew Bro. Jade just sent a shrug emoji, repeatedly. Mildly alarming, but mostly unhelpful. As per usual, Rose was the one who was actually somewhat knowledgeable. She set up a video call for when Bro was out of the house, and Dawn waved enthusiastically from behind her pointed shades. Rose smiled at her through the webcam.

Rose gave her advice; what bras to get, what bras not to get, and Dawn squirmed in her seat. It all felt...wrong. Wasn’t she supposed to be embracing femininity? At the end of the call, Rose casually wondered out loud what Dawn would look like with short hair, and she latched onto it. As soon as Rose logged off, Dawn searched up short haircuts, finding the perfect one to model herself after. Then she took the pair of kitchen shears and leaned over the sink. Spontaneity was her trademark, after all.

Half an hour later, Dawn’s hair had been roughly chopped off, and styled a little bit to look like a proper pixie. It looked terrible, but it was a weight off her shoulders, metaphorically and literally. Strifes would be so much easier now without her hair slipping from her ponytail. She spent a half an hour after that running aimlessly around the apartment, feeling the wind hit the back of her neck as she breezed through the halls. Then the door crashed open, and her heart sank. 

“What did you do, kid?” He wasn’t completely angry, thank god, she had a chance to redeem herself.

“I… I cut my hair.” Stony silence. Shades gleaming in the flickering kitchen light. “Do you like it?” Cold, cold quiet. Dawn waited, flinching back when Bro reached out his hand and grabbed a lock of it. 

“Lemme help you fix it. Gotta make you look good for the boys, huh?” Bro pulled out a pocket knife and led Dawn over to the sink again. She was frozen as he carefully, gently, almost, sheared off small sections, evened the cut out. “There we go. You use one of the swords or somethin’ to hack it off? Looked like you got in a fight with a weedwhacker.” He patted her on the shoulder, striding off to the living room and flopping onto the couch. “Wanna play?” He asked, holding up one of the Xbox controllers. Dawn vaulted over the couch, flopping next to him and shoving a stray smuppet aside. He handed her the controller and booted up the game, some shitty knock off of Tony Hawk. She huddled with her feet under her legs and tried not to get stuck on poles.


	6. Chapter 6

Dawn was eleven years old, and ecstatic. John was coming to visit. John was coming to visit! She was going to see John, real John, not just video chat, she could hear his voice without any buffering or static, and it was going to be fucking amazing. She had a great day planned for when he came over; with the meager cash she’d managed to scrounge up from lemonade stands and odd jobs around the complex, she had enough to pay for two tickets to the newest Batman movie and a trip to Dairy Queen. He was coming over at twelve thirty, and it was eleven now. Only an hour and a half. She tried to distract herself with various hobbies; sewing ended up with her so distracted that she stabbed her fingers to bleeding, she tore holes in her paper when she tried to draw. Finally, she opted for sitting on the steps near the door and waiting. 

At twelve thirty-five there was a knock on the door, six times. Dawn shot up and raced to the door to grab it, opening it and just. Staring. He was here. Wearing his shitty dorky glasses and a shirt designed to look like the monster dude’s jacket in Little Monsters. Dawn grinned at him, and John threw himself forward, hugging her tightly. She laughed, wrapping her arms around his middle. “I can’t believe I finally get to meet you! And you’re here, in real life, as a real person!” He pulled back, and god, those were definitely tears shining in his eyes. Dawn did her best to pretend she wasn’t crying too. They said goodbye to John’s dad, and Dawn led John on a tour of the apartment. 

After all four rooms of it had been exhausted, Dawn startled when someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, lil lady, you plannin’ on leaving without introducin’ me to your friend?” Dawn spun around, trying to control her breathing. She was never gonna get stronger if she hyperventilated every time she got spooked. 

“Uh. Bro, this is John. John, Bro. He’s from Indiana, he’s here for a wedding, and we got permission to hang out.” Just let them get out of the house before any more terrible forced conversation. Bro chuckled, and while it seemed to relax John a little bit, it put Dawn more on edge. That was his laugh that meant he was planning something, which also meant they had to get the fuck out if they wanted to leave unscathed. 

“Why don’t you two hang around a bit? You could even play some Xbox if you want to; we’ve got movies, too.” John brightened visibly, but Dawn tugged lightly on his wrist. Bro was putting on the accent, too much. Not his natural voice. That definitely meant something was up. 

“Sorry, Bro, but we’ve got a movie time to catch. Gotham waits for nobody!” Bro furrowed his brows ever so slightly, and his fingertips twitched. Her eyes shot to the movement, seeing what others might see as a nervous tic for what it truly was. A reminder. He could grab a sword at any moment, with his absurdly fast reflexes. He could flash-step his way to the fridge and back in a split second, and have her and John skewered in even less time. So Dawn did the obvious, and absconded the fuck out of there, John in tow. 

“Aww, Da-awn, we could have played Skate 3! You know it’s only the best game in existence!” John whined, but still let himself get pulled along by the wrist. Dawn shook her head, only letting go when they had reached the tile on the ground floor. 

“Trust me.” For a second, she debated telling John everything. Everything Bro did that probably wasn’t totally normal, wasn’t stereotypical parenting. But she knew what would happen if she told would be worse than anything Bro had ever done. “This movie is gonna be way better than some shitty skating game. Swear on my life.” John sighed, dramatically, but followed after her to the theater down the block.

Three hours later, they were sitting at one of the familiar concrete tables at Dawn’s favorite Dairy Queen (there were three others within walking distance) and raving about the movie. 

“Dude, did you SEE the cool new weapons he had?! That was amazing!” John gestured emphatically, a bright red plastic spoon in each hand. Dawn bit into the chocolate coating on her cone and grinned at him. 

“Told you Batman was gonna be better than some game. It was worth it, huh Egbert?” John nodded emphatically, taking a huge spoonful from his blizzard (Oreo in chocolate ice cream) and shoving it in his mouth. 

“Hell yeah it was!” He agreed, and Dawn smiled at the table, pushing her shades up. “Hey, is it okay if I ask you something?” She looked up as John changed his tone, making it softer, not as brash and bold. 

“Can’t guarantee you’re gonna get an answer, but shoot.” John angled his eyes down, stirring his blizzard anxiously. This was gonna be a weird, personal question wasn’t it?

“Why do you always wear shades? I’ve literally never seen you without them.” Dawn blinked at him, and then realized he probably couldn’t even see it, because of the shades.

“Honestly? I’m really not sure.” John tilted his head, like a confused puppy. “Bro just always made me wear them. Maybe it’s because of my eyes; we’ve both got weird eyes, so maybe he thought people would be, I don’t know, freaked out by them.” John relaxed visibly; had he expected her to be angry? 

“Can I see them? If that’s not too weird, or something, I’m just curious!” Dawn nodded, pulling the shades off, eyes squinted shut against the bright glare of the sun, folding the glasses on the table. Forcing them open, she looked John in the eyes, fully. His mouth parted in a tiny gasp, ice cream apparently forgotten.

“You’re not messing with me? Your eyes are seriously that color?” She nodded, cracking a small smile. “That’s so cool, dude! Red eyes? Why would you want to hide that!” Dawn hadn’t really expected him to get this happy about something so tiny, but she wasn't complaining. 

“Yep. No idea why, really-maybe some people told Bro he was, like, the devil’s spawn or something when he was younger and they saw his eyes. It’s easier now to just wear them.” Dawn remembered the screaming matches about the shades, always ending with her crouched on the bathroom floor, wrapping bandages around her arms and hoping they didn’t soak through. She still had the scars from those fights, the early days before she knew just how dangerous Bro could be. She learned quickly, but not quickly enough. John leaned forward, studying her eyes.

“You should take them off for calls sometime! Wow, they’re-I thought maybe they’d be like, just a weird shade of brown, but those are red. They’re really pretty!” Dawn laughed, pushing him backwards jokingly. “I’m serious! They’re amazing, Dawn.” John using her name stung, for whatever reason; she couldn’t put a finger on why. 

They spent the rest of the day visiting Dawn’s favorite haunts around town; back behind the Chinese restaurant where the youngest employee always gave her a shit ton of fortune cookies and a wink, the playground filled with outdated and super dangerous equipment, the train tracks, where they balanced on the edges of the rails and raced down them. 

“You know, Dawn,” John started, arms sticking out as he wobbled on the silver edge of the tracks, “I think you’re probably my best friend, and I hadn’t even met you in person before today. Is that sad?” Dawn laughed, walking with her hands in her pockets along the rail, perfectly balanced.

“Probably. But you’re my best friend, too, and we’re in the same boat. So we can be losers together.” John laughed, and Dawn took the opportunity to tip him over, and laughed when he fell over with a squawk onto the dusty ground.

“You jerk! Get over here!” John leaped over the rails to try and take her down, and she easily sidestepped him. 

“You’re gonna have to be faster than that, Egderp! I’ve got skills!” 

Eventually, John did have to leave. His dad came to pick him back up at around eleven at night (ridiculously late, amazing luck on their part) and Dawn gave a regretful goodbye to him. They hugged again, Dawn lacing her arms around him, John’s fingers tugging at her shirt. They were both sniffling when the final goodbye came, after teary promises to see each other again. Bro had been thankfully absent for most of the ordeal, only appearing to say goodbye to Mr. Egbert and clap a firm hand on Dawn’s shoulder. When the door closed, Bro was gone, a piece of paper fluttering down to rest on the floor where he had been standing. Dawn had seen the tension in his jaw, felt the too-strong grip on her shoulder that would probably leave marks. He was pissed. 

Roof. Now.

Shit.

Dawn sprinted up the staircase to the roof, sword held tightly in her hand. He’d be even angrier if she was slow. So she gripped the hilt and tried to keep her breathing steady as she climbed onto the roof. The haze of light pollution lit up the night sky in lieu of stars too washed out to be seen. She held her blade as tightly as she could, and waited with bated breath for the inevitable.

The first blow was quick, barely even a scratch. Her shades were thrown off her face, a thin red line tracing underneath her eye. He was just warming up. “What the hell did you think you were doing today?” He hissed, out of sight but his breath on her ear. She grit her teeth and spun around, brandishing her weapon as menacingly as she could. 

“You live in my house and you think you can just leave? You think you can tell your friends to leave this house when it’s my fuckin’ apartment and you’re my fuckin’ sister?” A phantom slash, the ghost of a blade across her nose, then a deeper slice across her ribcage. She sucked a breath in through her teeth, trying not to wince at the pain. 

A slash across the thigh, a hard blow to the head with the hilt of a sword, a kick to the back of the knees, and she tumbled to the ground, rolling across the gritty roof and scrambling to regain her footing. Cal’s ass suddenly met her face and she choked, trying to bat away his terrible plush hands. Her sword clattered to the ground, and Cal retreated, which was definitely unnatural. Before she could grab for her sword, there was a hand wrapped around her throat, lifting her up and slamming her into the wall of the stairwell. She struggled for air, clawing fruitlessly at Bro’s hand. “You little shit,” he gritted out, his face suddenly terrifyingly close to hers, and she could see the glint of orange behind his shades. The stench of smoke and stale booze was heavy on his breath, rancid, and it made her want to heave. “What did you think I was gonna do to your little friend, anyway? Scared I was gonna get him on camera?” Everything she wanted to say pounded on the inside of her skull.

You’re scary. you scare me, and you would scare John, and I want better for John than I want for myself. You’re so, so terrifying. 

But of course, it was a little difficult to say those things when she was being pinned to a brick wall by her throat and was starting to turn blue. Bro dropped her, finally, and she crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. “Wear a scarf tomorrow,” he grunted, trudging back down the stairs to the rest of the building. Dawn sucked in air, trying not to throw up. 

She was so glad John had left before this happened.


	7. Chapter 7

Dawn was eleven and a half, and was packing her bags. There was a fresh mark stinging on her bare calf, dripping blood onto the warped hardwood of her bedroom floor. She had her plan. She had a wad of cash she’d gathered through intense advertising, babysitting, carrying groceries for people, stitching up clothes, whatever other job she could get. Throwing out a final smuppet from her duffel bag holding what would soon be her whole life, she limped to the bathroom. Wrapped up the cut, taped it off, looked ahead to her new life through the pain. Rose was out there. She was getting out. No more scars, no more fear, no more Bro. A new life. 

Rose lived in Corvallis, Oregon, with her mother and two cats. Dawn lived in San Antonio, Texas. It was approximately a 33 hour drive, but accounting for the traffic, night stops, and various other possible disasters, it could take upwards of three days of riding to get there. She’d never ridden Greyhound before, but it couldn’t be that hard, right? So Dawn pocketed enough cash to buy some gas station snacks, her tickets, and her headphones, and crept out the door.

Outside it was dismally, stiflingly hot, with a crescent moon hanging in the sky. Bro was out god knows where, doing god knows what, and frankly, she didn’t care anymore, as long as he wasn’t here. The nearest stop was a mile away, so she started the trek through the hot Texas night. She was on her way out. 

She handed over her tickets (300 hard-earned dollars) and chose a seat near the front, plugging in her phone and opening Pesterchum. She sent out a message to Rose (TG: on the bus) and settled back for a long morning. The clock blinking at the front of thus bus read 4:13. Dawn laid her head on the window and waited for the ride to start.

She stayed passed out until 2:30 in the afternoon, waking up to an old man leaning his head on her shoulder, snoring loudly. Ten and a half hour nap, to make up for not sleeping for the past six nights. She nudged the grandpa’s head off her shoulder, stuffed her earbuds in her ears, and tuned out the rest of the world.

Her playlist lasted for four hours as she stared out the window at the changing landscape. Fourteen and a half down, forty-five to go. She swung off the bus and bought a Honeybun and a pack of gum at 7-11. 

She managed to nurse the Honeybun through the next three and a half hours, taking miniscule bites every fifteen minutes, even though she was ravenous. Eighteen hours done. She chewed one piece of gum every hour, making it through the fifteen sticks in fifteen hours. Thirty-three hours down. She drew, she took pictures of the scenery, she made idle chit-chat with the grandpa sitting next to her (he was going to go visit his great-granddaughter in Oregon, who had six dogs). Took another nap, sleeping her way through the entirety of Utah. Seven more hours passed. She was in the home stretch, finally, almost in Oregon now. Five hours left. 

She leaped off the bus at the next stop, running into the gas station and grabbing a slushie, before going to sit in wait for the next bus. A car pulled up, idling on the curb, and Dawn ignored it; must be for someone else, an Uber or something. Until a heavy hand came down on her shoulder and a too-familiar voice announced, “Alright, lil lady, time to head home. Have fun on your little adventure?” His voice was bright, cheerful almost, and it sent a cold chill down her spine. Grandpa smiled at her and waved goodbye as she was escorted off with a firm grip on her shoulder. Bro near-threw her into the passenger seat of the strange car, then walked around to the driver’s side, slushie forgotten on the bench. She traced anxious fingers across the soft seats. “Is this new?” She asked as Bro climbed in; sometimes conversation distracted him from being too angry. He nodded, letting the car purr to life.

“A 2010 Lexus GS 350.” Dawn silently wondered why he could afford such an expensive car and never buy food, but that was a problem for a different time. Right now she lapsed into an uneasy silence, and tried to wait out the anger. Twenty-eight hours of solid silence and minimal bathroom breaks later, Dawn was wrapping her arms in bandages and wondering how best to clean blood off of a tile floor. The plan was most definitely a bust.


	8. Chapter 8

Dawn was twelve years old, and was sitting down to watch a movie, since Bro had been out for the past day and a half, so it was unlikely he’d come back in the next week. Whatever. She had enough food to last her for a few days at least, and Roxy at the Chinese restaurant could always score her a meal or two. So instead, she flopped onto the couch and navigated to Netflix. Bro had remembered to renew their subscription, so she had unlimited access to any and all movies she could dream of. She flipped on some movie that was trending, something called Three Generations, and prepared herself to zone the fuck out. 

An hour later, she was gripping the edge of the couch and leaning towards the screen, eyes glued to the scene playing out. This kid, he was. He was born a girl. You couldn’t do that, could you? Was that allowed? But he was a boy, and they were talking about getting him something-T?-to make him fully a boy. That was an option. They had showed him wrapping bandages around his chest, and Dawn let her mind wander a bit, wander to what it might be like for her to be like him? 

Then she grabbed the remote and clicked the power off, chucking the remote aside and retreating to her room, grabbing Bro’s laptop on her way. 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 19:15 --

TG: rose  
TG: rose i think im having a crisis  
TT: Dawn? Are you okay?  
TT: Did your brother do something again?  
TG: well he kind of enabled this so  
TG: by extension yes  
TT: Do you want to go a little more in depth about this crisis?  
TG: uh  
TG: so i was watching a movie  
TG: and something kind of came up  
TT: You’re going to have to be a little more precise. Things happening is something typical of movies.  
TG: urgh rose youre such a nag  
TG: but  
TG: can you like  
TG: change genders  
TG: is that a thing that can happen  
TT: Yes, although you can’t really ‘change’ genders, per sey. You are born as a gender, but sometimes in the wrong body for your identity. 

Good ol’ Rose. Never asks too many questions. But still doesn't explain things very much right off the bat.

TG: what  
TT: Here.   
TT: http://gender.wikia.com/wiki/Transgender  
TG: a wikia article  
TG: is this a reputable source lalonde  
TT: Just read it, Dawn.

Half an hour of browsing the wikia later, things were both more and less confusing. And she didn’t think she’d be ready to message Rose back for a while. A long, long while.


	9. Chapter 9

Dawn was thirteen, and hiding in the bathroom on her birthday. Bro had stopped actually paying attention to her birthdays a few years ago, so she had some possible freedom. She had yelled out that she was changing her bandages, and Bro hadn’t said anything back, so it was safe to say he didn’t give a shit. So Dawn stood in front of the bathroom mirror and stared at her chest.

It looked like it always did. Like a girl’s chest. And it felt like it always did; wrong. Incorrect. Like it belonged to someone else, not like it belonged on her. So she took a deep breath, and unwrapped the roll of Ace bandages, starting to wrap them tightly around her chest. 

She fastened the safety pin carefully into the bandages, and twisted back and forth in front of the mirror, observing from all angles. Her chest was neatly packed away, pressed flat to her body. The bandages were rubbing uncomfortably at her torso, but it wasn’t bad. She’d felt worse. So she pulled on the cool-ass shirt Jade got her for her birthday, a baseball shirt with what could have been a record or a Minecraft music disc on the front, and admired herself in the mirror.

Nearly flat-chested. It hurt to breathe a little bit, but it was worth it, worth it for how good she felt. She left the bathroom, ready for the next step in this journey of ‘self-discovery’ as Rose called it. So far, Rose was the only one who knew about any of Dawn’s questioning of...this stuff, and it hurt every time she saw John had pestered her, and she remembered she still hadn’t told him. They shared everything. But still, she wanted to find out who she really was before she told her best bro anything important. 

Ow. Ow, ow, ow. Okay, Rose said binding wasn’t supposed to hurt, but maybe Dawn just had weak ribs or something. Whatever. She sat down in front of the hand-me-down laptop she had gotten for her birthday (Bro had gotten himself a brand new one) and opened a new tab.

“Names for trans guys” 

Scrolling through the list of names, she considered each one. This had to be special. Nothing too fancy, or hard to spell; maybe something similar to her birth name, since then she’d still respond to her old name. Shit, she probably should stop thinking in female pronouns. They always felt wrong, but now they grated against her brain, like some weird asshole with a cheese grater had broken into her skull.

“Dave,” he whispered, trying it out. Seeing how it rolled off his tongue. “Dave Strider.” Dave or David meant beloved, derived from Hebrew. Strider meant he was an awesome dude, destined for greatness. Beloved Awesome Dude. 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 13;15 --

TG: hey rose  
TG: what do you think about dave  
TT: I can’t say I know a Dave. You do realize we live hundreds of miles apart, so I probably don’t know your offline friends.  
TG: rose you fucking doofus  
TG: like  
TG: dave, for me  
TG: as a name  
TT: Oh!   
TT: Yes, I am a doofus. I’m sorry. I think Dave is a wonderful name for you.  
TT: Do you want me to start calling you Dave?  
TG: is it too soon?   
TG: am i doing this too fast  
TT: It’s been almost a year since you came to me first about this. I don’t think you’re going too fast at all.   
TG: then uh  
TG: yes please  
TG: call me dave  
TT: Well, Mr. Strider, I’m pleased to learn your new real name.   
TG: dave strider  
TG: does that sound good  
TT: I think it’s a great name.   
TT: Have you told anyone else yet?  
TG: no  
TG: i dont really know how  
TT: “hey guys the coolest person you know is actually a boy, my name is dave. See ya.”   
TT: Something like that?  
TG: ow shit brb

Fuck. This probably wasn’t supposed to hurt that bad. He pulled at the edges of the bandage, trying to tug them slightly looser. It hurt like a son of a bitch, and it didn’t help that one of the safety pins had come loose and was stabbing him in the back. Shit. Okay, how long had he been wearing this? He glanced at the clock on his computer; about an hour and a half. Barely any time. Was she-was he supposed to be taking breaks or something? When his ribcage gave another twinge of pain, he decided breaks were a good idea. Rushing to the bathroom, he whipped his shirt off and yanked out the safety pins. 

Oh god. There was a ring of purple bruises, right around where the bandages had circled her-uh, his chest. His ribs were aching, and he rolled up the bandages tightly before pulling on a tight bra instead. It was nice while it lasted, but now he was rimmed with bruises and maybe had a broken rib. How did you fix a broken rib again?


	10. Chapter 10

Dave Strider was thirteen and a half, and staring at his best friend’s blinking icon that indicated he was online. He had to tell him eventually. It was John, his best friend for three years now. He had to know. 

Dave typed out at least six possible messages, deleting all of them before sending. Fuck. This was difficult. What if John was transphobic? What if he rejected him? What if Dave lost his best fucking friend? Jade already knew, somehow; fuck if he knew, but she figured it out. Jade probably knew Dave better than himself. But John, dear, sweet, precious John, was as oblivious as always. Dave cradled his head in his hands and sighed. 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 11:27 --

TG: uh  
TG: hey john  
EB: hey dawn! What’s up?  
TG: uhhh  
TG: i guess i have something to tell you  
EB: is something wrong? :?  
TG: well, firstly that face is horrendous  
TG: secondly  
TG: uhhhh fuck  
EB: are you gay or something? 

What.

EB: because it’s totally cool if you are! I mean, i dont know what i am quite yet, but it’s not straight, so if you’re not either then that’s okay!

The.

EB: yeah, uh, if you wanna break this awkward coming out with your own, you can totally do that any time now.

Fuck.

TG: im trans

Well, there it was. One awkward coming out followed by another.

TG: i guess you could say im the “or something”  
EB: …  
TG: ...

The fucking finish crumbs. He hated them. 

EB: yeah i dont know what that is  
TG: fuck  
TG: im gonna explain this shittily but   
TG: i was born as a girl, but i feel like a boy  
TG: does that make sense?  
EB: i...think so? Maybe i should ask rose, shes probably smart about this stuff  
TG: rose is smart about everything

Dave was practically pulling his hair out, fists clenched in it, breathing heavy. Jesus. This was...this was stressful. 

EB: so you’re a boy?  
TG: yeah  
EB: for how long?  
TG: i started questioning this shit a year ago, but looking back there were. there were signs.   
EB: so wait  
EB: whats your name now?  
EB: im looking this stuff up and it says trans people change their names sometimes  
EB: are you gonna do that?  
TG: its dave  
TG: so if you wanna call me that  
TG: thatd be cool  
EB: damn, thats a really basic name until you add in ‘strider’ and make it like, 200% cooler  
TG: hell yeah it is  
EB: okay!  
EB: im really glad you told me this dave. 

Dave’s heart was swelling three sizes. It was the Grinch up in this bitch. 

EB: im gonna go do some research on this okay? so i can actually understand it better. lemme know if you want to play a game or video chat or something!  
TG: will do egderp

God. His cheeks hurt from smiling so wide. And John had even come out, so. That was new. This. This was a good day. 

He had been so happy, he’d managed to almost forget Bro had even existed. Until the door to his room slammed open, the sound of a sword being pulled from its sheath startling him from his stupor. “Sis. Get on the roof. Training time.” He nodded, and Bro flash-stepped away. He sighed, grabbing his sword and following the sound of metal hitting brick. 

It was only after he was down in the bathroom, smoothing off-brand Band-Aids onto the scratches on his elbows that he realized something. He’d have to come out to Bro. Or he’d never be able to be out anywhere else; even if school was now a semi-rare occasion, it hurt getting called Dawn still. That was going to be an ordeal.

He had to test the waters. He didn’t know if he was safe. But for now, he could feel his eyelids drooping, his muscles weakening. He pulled off his second sports bra and went to lay on his bed, slipping headphones on. Whatever was going to happen could wait until tomorrow, at least.


	11. Chapter 11

Dave was fourteen years old, and he’d finally decided that it was the right time to see Bro’s opinion on this stuff. “Hey, Bro, you wanna watch a movie or something?” He was off work, or off whatever he did, for the day, and was actually spending it at home for once. He grunted in response, and Dave pulled up Netflix with shaky hands, perching on the edge of the couch next to Bro. “John told me this movie was good, so I thought we could try it out.” His voice was far calmer than he felt, and it was a fight to keep it steady. Bro nodded, not looking up from polishing the katana he was cradling in his hands. Dave flipped Three Generations on, and waited.

Bro didn’t look like he was paying attention, at all. Dave did his best to fall into the movie like he always did, but with Bro sitting right there, he was on edge. It didn’t help that he was holding some huge-ass sword, either. By the end of the movie, Dave was sweating bullets, and Bro was silent. 

“You said John told you ‘bout this movie?” He nodded, hands clenched on his knees. “So, is he tryin’ to say he’s a girl or some shit now?” Bro’s voice was venomous, biting into Dave. 

“No, it’s just, it’s a good movie, I personally-”

“No one gives a shit about what you think, Dawn, and especially not me. Is John some fucking tranny now?” Dave winced, scooting down along the couch to put some extra distance between him and Bro. 

“No, it’s just a movie Bro! Ray is an interesting-”

“Dawn, her name is fucking Rebecca. That movie was shit. You can’t just up and change genders, then preach about how you were ‘always that way’ like you’re some fuckin’ martyr.” Bro glared from behind his shades, and Dave shrank back, pressed against the tattered arm of the couch. “You tryin’ to tell me something, Dawn?” He shook his head jerkily, nearly shaking his shades off. Bro relaxed, settling back into the couch. 

“Good. You prob’ly didn’t even know what kinda shit John was preachin’ anyway, did you?” Dave shook his head, and took the opportunity to run back to his room at top speed. 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 12:16 --  
TG: so that plan was a bust  
TG: guess im not gonna come out to bro  
EB: oh shit, what did he do?  
TG: he may have used a slur, and just been terrible in general  
TG: but really what else is new  
EB: aw geez that really blows!  
EB: but, i have some news that might make you feel a bit better  
TG: whats the scoop egbert  
TG: fill me in on some juicy gossip  
EB: my dad is getting a new job, and it’s a really good offer, but we have to move  
EB: and its in texas  
EB: so my dad said we’re gonna be able to move into your area so we can actually see each other!!!  
TG: wait really? This isnt some shitty prank right  
EB: no gambits are going on right now. Im dead serious, dave. we could be neighbors!  
TG: dude holy shit!  
TG: this is amazing!  
TG: arent you at least a little sad to be leaving your house rn though?  
EB: nah, kids at school are assholes. good riddance!  
TG: when are you guys moving?  
EB: two more months in this town and then we’re free!  
EB: my dad is calling me now, gotta go check out house websites.  
EB: see you in two months!

Dave sat on the floor and browsed YouTube until he couldn’t stay awake any longer. He couldn't make himself stop smiling. John was coming to live here, live right near him, and it was amazing. Bro hated Dave’s very existence, and the threat of a blade was always looming over him, but now Dave had something to stay alive for. He had the promise of John.


	12. Chapter 12

Dave was still fourteen, but two months older, and he was standing outside of the baby-blue house two blocks away from his apartment, bouncing on the balls of his feet and holding a plate of chocolate chip cookies that managed to be both burnt and undercooked. He had been standing there for a few minutes, looking at the badly-paved driveway, the storage bins sitting in it, the bright gold minivan. John was inside that house, and he was waiting for Dave, who was taking his sweet time psyching himself up to ring the doorbell. He finally did it, listening to the musical chime that played. Footsteps pounded on the floor, and someone’s face was suddenly squashed against the frosted glass window.

The door clicked open and Dave got pulled into a tight hug, John’s fingers lacing together behind him. “Dave!” He said, pulling back and smiling. “Oops.” The cookies had gotten smushed in the sudden hug, but it was fine, because John was here and smiling sheepishly at him, and that made it all infinitely worth it. 

“No big, dude, they were shitty cookies anyway. Apparently our oven sucks ass, so it was a mistake to even try.” John laughed, and Dave chuckled with him. 

“Come on, get in here! I’ve gotta give you the whole tour!” John grabbed Dave’s hand and dragged him in the house, throwing his free arm out to getsure grandly at the first room. “Welcome to the foy-ey!” Dave reasoned he meant foyer, like a normal human, but John was off again before he could laugh at him. “Here’s the dining room and kitchen,” Dave barely got a glance at the modest kitchen before he was whisked off, “Living room!” A couch and a loveseat, plus a TV with a PS4 hooked up. “C’mon, slowpoke!” Dave groaned good-naturedly and let John tug him along, trampling up beige-carpeted stairs. 

“Here’s the room you’ve all been waiting for,” John started, doing his announcer voice. “The creme de la creme, the cream of the crop, everything you’ve ever dreamed of and more! The room of John Egbert!” He threw open the door and Dave played his part as the fawning audience, oohing and ahhing over every aspect of the room; the posters on the walls, the color of the bedsheets, the fiber of the throw rug-

“Alright, smartass, now we’re gonna hang out and have friend bonding. Because it’s been years since I saw you in person and that’s a problem, and I wanna catch up on recent events.” Dave grinned, tugging at the collar of his sweatshirt. “Wanna listen to something?”

“‘S long as it’s not Con Air or some shit. I’m all ears. I’m open and ready for the bro bonding, hit me.” John punched him in the arm, and Dave toppled on his side on the floor, rolling onto his back. John tumbled down next to him, turning his head to grin at him. 

They spent the next two hours on the floor, talking about all the bullshit they usually do. Games, movies, people at school, food. Anything that came up could be made into a shitty joke, and then exhausted to the point where they were both crying with laughter. 

John had ended up turned to face Dave, leaning in when he laughed. It was really pretty awesome to have actual physical contact with his best friend; it was weird being able to clearly see his face, see how his nose crinkled when he laughed and how his smile was even more lopsided than he had thought. It was all so perfectly John. So Dave smiled and grabbed John’s hands with his own, and John squeezed his fingers and Dave squeezed back. And it felt right. He was finally going to have an actual, real-life friend who he could see as often as he wanted.


	13. Chapter 13

Dave was fifteen, and was going to have an awesome birthday party for the first time in years. Admittedly, ‘party’ may not have been the best word to use, but whatever. It might also not be exactly his fifteenth birthday, but it WAS exactly six months after it, and his party was John’s dad driving him and John to get Dave’s temps, then to Dairy Queen to get an ice cream cake and an unhealthy amount of fries. So Dave was sitting in the back seat of Mr. Egbert’s minivan, squirming anxiously. John squeezed his hand reassuringly, but it wasn’t enough to quell all of his nerves. 

He got through the vision part well enough to move on, successfully identified the windshield wiper fluid compartment and explained how to refill it, and climbed into the driver’s seat, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans before grabbing the steering wheel, at ten and two. “Okay, I’m gonna have you pull out into the training area now, and hang a left. Got it?” His instructor smiled at him, brown hair tied back into a loose bun. Dave grinned weakly and pressed the accelerator. 

The practical exam went better than he’d hoped. No rolling stops, only a few cones knocked over, and he even managed to almost perfectly parallel park. When he stepped out, John and Mr. Egbert cheered raucously, John jumping out of the car and running over to wrap him in a hug. Dave breathed deeply, trying to fill anxious lungs with familiar air. “C’mon, let’s go get your license!” Dave smiled into John’s shoulder and followed him inside.

One terrible license photo later, Dave was leaning his head on John in the back of the car while John chattered animatedly. Dave grinned into his shoulder and asked for an Oreo ice cream cake from Dairy Queen.

They sat and watched old movies in the Egbert’s living room, and the obligated Con Air. Dave made fun of Nicolas Cage the whole time, prompting John to nearly smack the paper plate of cake out of his hands. Dave powered through with his humor through the Wizard of Oz, Sharknado, and Arsenic and Old Lace. Mr. Egbert retired eventually, leaving the boys to their own whims. Dave put on Friday the Thirteenth, and John squeaked in fear, throwing his empty plate out of the way and huddling closer to Dave. “What, Egderp? You scared or something?” John nodded vigorously, fists clenched in Dave’s sleeve. “Alright, c’mere,” he sighed dramatically, grabbing a blanket from the nearby pile and draping it around himself, then holding it open for John to crawl in. He burrowed into Dave’s side, resting his head against his side and sighing contentedly. Dave grinned, chuckling.

“Better?” 

“Much.”

John hid his face in Dave’s side whenever anyone died or there were suspenseful moments, which meant most of the movie was spent with a giggling fifteen-year-old huddled into his side. They ended up curled next to each other on the carpet, under a mountain of blankets, hands and legs overlapping and crisscrossing. Bojack Horseman made countless tasteless jokes while John scooted closer to Dave, bright blue eyes meeting red ones; both of their glasses were on the TV stand, so they had an uninterrupted staring contest, that John somehow managed to win. 

“Dave?” John asked, and Dave turned to look at him, smiling quietly. “Have you thought about your middle name?” He shrugged, and John nuzzled closer to him. “Your old middle name is Elizabeth, but I think you should get a new one.” His voice was heavy with sleep, quiet and tired; the clock over the TV said it was around three in the morning. 

Dave paused, running his fingers through John’s hair. “Clarence,” he said through a laugh, and John snorted. 

“David Clarence Strider? Why Clarence?” Dave grinned, pulling a blanket tighter around his and John’s torsos. 

“Just came to me.” 

At some point John drifted off, breathing evenly, swaddled in the heap of blankets. Dave carefully disentangled himself, striding over to stare out the window at the gray false dawn. A few lone birds chirped in the quiet, and he took in the silence of the early morning. It was his favorite time of day; when the rest of the world was asleep and he was awake, alone in the chilled air. It was peaceful.

When he woke up the next morning he was somehow re-tangled with John’s limbs, John’s eyes closed peacefully. Dave blinked blearily, watching absently the way the light played across John’s face, the rise and fall of his chest, his soft cheekbones, the way his nose twitched even in his sleep. His eyes cracked open, and Dave did his best to try very casually to cover up the fact that he’d been staring at him. “Morning, David Clarence Strider,” John yawned, smiling sleepily and cracking his knuckles loudly. “Dad said he’d make waffles when we woke up. You ready?” Dave nodded, trying to clear his head of any residual musings. It was time for waffles.


	14. Chapter 14

Dave was still fifteen, and was having the best summer of his life. Even if he always wore long sleeves, he managed to keep cool somehow. He and John had spent the past month dicking around the neighborhood; shoplifting candy bars, buying from the lemonade stands on every corner and then loudly complimenting the lemonade when they were still in earshot of the kids, taking popsicles from garage freezers and meandering down the sidewalk at whatever pace they pleased. Bro had let up on strifes, spending most of his days out and about on the town. Dave was fine with that; he had the apartment to himself most of the time, and Mr. Egbert was always willing to feed him or teach him how to cook. On the nights Bro came home, it was normally swaying and stumbling, smelling like cheap booze and cigarettes. He always had a girl on his arm, and always neglected to tell them that someone else lived in the place. Those were the nights Dave shoved his headphones over his ears and crept out the door, running to John’s place instead. John never asked too many questions, just grabbed Dave’s wrist and pulled him in, where they’d play PS4 until they fell asleep on the living room floor. 

Every morning brought the same routine, more or less, on the nights he spent at the apartment. Bro’s clothes crumpled on the couch, smuppets strewn everywhere across the apartment. His brother nowhere to be found, nor the girl from the night before. A microwave cup of ramen, and off to John’s house to putter around the neighborhood for the better part of the day. Home at night, hope that Bro didn’t come home. A weekly strife, patching himself up, moving on with his day and dodging John’s questions about the bandages on his arms. An easy routine. Simple. He fell into it easily, and let himself be comforted by John’s presence and the lack of fatal injuries.

It had just been a normal day, a normal hang out at John’s house. He and John were fucking around like they always did, John in the living room with their Call of Duty round paused, Dave in the kitchen loading a plate with cookies Mr. Egbert had made. John said something that made him laugh, and the plate slipped out of his hand. He froze, then dove to catch it, but the ceramic shattered on the tile floor before he could even get a finger on it. He could hear Bro breathing down his neck, almost felt the sword kiss the small of his back. He was in so much trouble, Bro was gonna be so mad, and god, Dave could feel his breathing speeding up. Stop. Breathe. He clenched his fists, reminding himself where he was. John’s house. He was playing Call of Duty with John Egbert, his best friend. Tried his best to use the strategies he’d learned to stop this shit in its tracks. But then footsteps approached him, thudding like Bro’s when he ran after him, and Dave reacted on instinct.

Mr. Egbert was staring at him, eyes wide, as Dave held a switchblade to the tip of his nose with terrifyingly steady hands. Mr. Egbert. Not Bro. Not Bro. Bro wasn’t here. And Dave dropped the blade and knelt on the kitchen floor, shaken with full-body tremors. Mr. Egbert said something, but Dave couldn’t hear it over the sounds of metal on metal in his ears. He felt himself gently grabbed under the armpits, then swept into a bridal carry, but he couldn’t comprehend the hands on him. It wasn’t him, was it? It couldn’t be. Some other boy being carried across John’s house.

“-ave! Dave, please, come back, we’re here, you’re safe here,” John was shaking him wildly, hands gripping his shoulders excruciatingly tight; Bro had slashed him pretty good there yesterday morning. His eyes were wild, brows furrowed. It looked like he was crying. “Oh god, Dave, you’re bleeding, why are you bleeding?” He thought John must have broken through the wraps on his shoulders; weird, because he didn’t feel any pain. But John was staring at his knees, and Dave followed his gaze. There were shards of the plate stuck into his knees, torn through his jeans, the denim stained dark with blood. Personally, he thought it was pretty obvious why he was bleeding, but he couldn’t make himself speak. “Okay, we’re gonna get you fixed up, c’mon, it’s gonna be okay-” John’s hands were pulled away, replaced by one of Mr. Egbert’s.

“Okay, David. I need you to come back to me. Can you tap my hand to let me know you’re hearing me?” His voice was warm and familiar, steadying. Dave tapped his hand with his pointer finger, twice. His voice wasn’t working, but Mr. Egbert seemed satisfied. “Thank you. Now, we’re gonna get you cleaned up, okay? Can you walk to the bathroom? Tap once for yes and twice for no.” Dave paused, then tapped once. Mr. Egbert put an arm under his shoulder, and John grabbed him on the other side. Slowly, they lifted him, and started their way through the hallway. Dave hoped he wasn’t bleeding on their nice carpet. 

“Alright, I’m going to have to take your jeans off so I can take care of your cuts. Tap my hand to let me know you understand, okay?” He wanted to protest that he could take care of it himself, he had enough experience, but he just tapped the hand offered to him and let Mr. Egbert shimmy his jeans off of him while he sat on the closed toilet. John gasped, which turned into a sob, when they were off. The cuts couldn’t be that bad, could they? Was he still shaking?

“Dave, your legs!” Oh, right. The scars. Mr. Egbert sucked a breath in through his teeth, staring at Dave’s legs. They were laced over with scars, some raised, some just indents in the skin. One or two were still healing, barely scabbed over. It probably wasn’t a pretty sight. 

“This is going to hurt a little bit, but I promise it’ll feel better when it’s done, okay?” Mr. Egbert’s voice was still soft and strong, holding him steady, barely a tremor in it. So different from Bro’s too-familiar rasping accent. He pulled a pair of tweezers out of the bathroom cabinet, then knelt in front of Dave before starting to pull out the bigger pieces. It stung a little bit, but he’d felt worse. 

John ran a damp wad of toilet paper over the knee his dad had finished with, cleaning off the excess blood still oozing out slowly, before drying it gently and smoothing a large red Band-Aid over it. Dave reached a trembling hand down and patted his head gently, and John laughed wetly, like he was trying to choke back tears.

When both his knees were bandaged and clean, John grabbed a pair of sweatpants for him that Dave pulled on gladly. He was starting to feel a little more like himself, more connected to reality again. Mr. Egbert held onto his elbow as he wobbled back to the living room, and he sat Dave on the couch, perching next to him. John sat on his other side, stroking his thumb over Dave’s knuckles like he wanted to reassure himself he was still there. Still tethered to the earth.

“David,” Mr. Egbert started, eyebrows creased anxiously. “Where did you get those injuries?” 

“I kneeled on a broken plate.” Hadn’t he been there? Why was he asking?

Mr. Egbert shook his head. “The ones on your thighs. Those didn’t look self-inflicted. What happened to you?” John gripped his hand.

“Bro,” he said, making a concentrated effort to not let the tears gathering in his eyes fall.

“Your brother did this to you?” Mr. Egbert sounded appalled. Angry, even. 

“Yeah.” That was all there was to say on the matter. He wasn’t strong enough to get away; it was his own fault he had these injuries. Mr. Egbert muttered something under his breath, something angry-sounding, but Dave didn’t have the energy to run from him. Maybe he wouldn’t be as angry as Bro normally was. Hopefully it wouldn’t be fatal.

“John, go get the car started. Dave, we’re going to go get your stuff, okay? You don’t have to spend another night there. We’ll get you out of there.” Dave stared at him from behind his shades, trying to ignore the tears sliding down his cheeks. He couldn’t get out. Bro would find him. He always did, didn’t he?

The time he’d run away in fourth grade, tired of the constant injuries. Bro found him at the park and gave him the strife of his life, and the raised, parallel scars across his spine. In sixth grade, too, when he’d planned so hard for a way to get to Rose across the country. When he’d gotten plucked off the bus at the second-to-last stop by Bro, and taken home, and given the scars wrapping across his stomach. At some point, he’d given up.

They drove to the Strider home (Bro was mercifully absent) and picked up some of Dave’s things, stuffing two suitcases. Clothes, music, photos and memories. Mr. Egbert said they could come back another time so they could get the rest of his stuff, and Dave silently agreed. Next stop was the local children’s center. Dave and John had to stay in the car, and when Mr. Egbert came back he had a wad of paperwork in his hands. “I’m applying to be a foster parent, so you can live with us. They’re more likely to choose a placement where the child already knows the family, so as soon as I’m licensed you’re going to live with us full-time.” The next stop was Target, and Mr. Egbert led him and John into the stationery section.

“Dave, you’re going to choose a notebook and write down everything you can remember Bro doing. Update when you remember things, with your age and the date before it. They’ll see better that you have to get out of there.” Dave grabbed a gold ring journal, and they went back to the Egberts. The drive was silent. 

Dave sat on John’s bed, gnawing on the end of his pencil, staring at the first blank page of his new testament. John was sitting next to him, silent. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He finally asked, and Dave jumped, startled. “You could have told me.” Dave avoided his gaze, because if he met his eyes he’d start crying. 

“Bro didn’t want me to tell anyone. I got in trouble when I did.” Through his pants he traced along the angry red line where Bro had sliced into him when he’d told his kindergarten teacher what was going on. He didn’t want that again.

“I wish I could have helped you before,” he said, and Dave could see him scrubbing at his eyes under his glasses. “I wish I’d known. I feel so useless.” Dave finally turned to him, resting a hand on top of his.

“Hey. You’re not useless. You’re helping way more than I ever imagined someone could. Okay?” Now both of them were crying, and John pulled him into a tight hug. Dave hugged back, sniffling. 

“Now, I’m gonna go make snacks or something. Work on your journal, okay? We’re gonna get you of there.” John smiled weepily, wiping a stray tear away. Dave nodded, and pulled the journal back onto his lap, trying not to let teardrops mess up the paper.

_My name is David Clarence Strider. I am fifteen years old. I am transgender. I have an abusive older brother._

__

__

_My first strife was when I was four or five; it’s blurry. Bro handed me a full-sized sword and led me to the roof, and we fought. He was gentle the first time; no scars left, barely even a few scratches. He helped me take care of them when we were done._

_When I was five, he slashed through my favorite dress, a green one with cartoon frogs on it. I sat on the roof and cried, and he held the blade to my neck and threatened that if I didn’t stop crying, he would kill me. I don’t doubt that he would have. I sewed my dress up myself._

_Later that year, I told my teacher what was going on. CPS came to visit, and Bro managed to pretend to be a passable guardian for a long as they were there. When I got home, he nearly killed me. There’s still a scar on my left leg from that day._

_As long as I can remember, Bro has been working on his wares. Smuppets, he called them. I hated them, so much. There were puppets everywhere around the apartment, and he used to make me pose while holding them, then take a bunch of pictures. I don’t know why._

_By the time I was seven, I was so covered in scars that I wore long sleeves and pants everywhere except onto the roof. I wasn’t allowed to show anyone, or I’d get in a shit ton of trouble._

_At eight years old, I had learned that violence was the only way I could solve my problems. I got suspended, then expelled, for fighting. Nobody seemed to notice I cried during every fight. Maybe I got good at pretending it wasn’t happening, so good that nobody else even knew._

It took an hour for Dave to write more than three paragraphs of all the shit Bro had done. John came back a little ways in to see Dave hunched over the notebook, scribbling furiously as tears dripped down the bridge of his nose. He pulled Dave’s shades off his face and set them aside, wiped his eyes gently, then sat and patted his free hand quietly. Peeled tangerines and handed them to Dave, handed him tissues. Didn’t say a word, just a quiet, steady anchor. 

He finally folded the journal closed and flopped backwards on John’s bed, completely drained. Of tears, of anger, of fear. It was oddly peaceful. John laid next to him, carding gentle fingers through his hair. “Better?” He asked, softly, warm breath on Dave’s ear. He nodded, turning to curl farther into John’s chest. “You’re gonna be okay, David Clarence Strider. You’re going to be just fine.” Dave nuzzled his face into John’s shirt and let himself cry again, shuddering softly as John ran soothing hands up and down his back. He cried until his face tingled all over, his whole body shivering slightly, and he finally sagged into John’s arms. Exhausted. He let his eyes slip closed; the last he remembered was John humming a quiet tune, wordless and flowing, as he pressed his face to his sternum.


	15. Chapter 15

The next few weeks passed in a blur of tears and paperwork and scribbled journal entries. Dave spilled everything he had trapped in his mind into that journal, everything Bro had done. Stuff he hadn’t made himself think about in years, that made him need to take breaks to crawl into John’s closet and breathe deeply and calmly. If he was in there too long and John started to get worried, Mr. Egbert made cinnamon rolls and Dave would creep out and make an attempt at conversation. Some days he would break down unexpectedly, when he thought a little too hard about having to call CPS on Bro, and his hand flew to his leg again, tracing over the scar. Just a scar, just a scar, just a scar. Recovery was far more difficult than he’d planned for, and he hadn’t even known he’d have to recover. 

Bro didn’t try and come find him. For the first time in his life, Dave had real peace. No cameras watching, no swords advancing, no fresh injuries. But he was so used to watching out for himself, that it was hard to break old habits. This was especially evident when Mr. Egbert announced they were going to have a day out on the town, and go bowling at the local bowling alley. John had run back to tell Dave, who was sketching a dog with a human neck absently. “Dave! Bowling! We’re gonna get shitty bowling alley food and be bad at bowling!” Dave looked up and closed his journal, smiling slightly. He reached for the switchblade he kept on John’s nightstand, and John reached out to stop his hand.

“Maybe you don’t need to bring that?” He offered, and Dave tried to think through the sudden hand-on-hand contact. It had taken so much practice to not carry the blade everywhere around the house, but it still went outside with him. It was comforting, a weird thing to call a knife, but it was true. Assurance that if someone was trying to come at him, he could fight back. But he paused and tried to think it through; logically, John was probably right. He normally was about these things. When was the last time he’d had to use it? When was the last time Mr. Egbert or John got attacked in public? It seemed like an okay decision to make, but his stomach still fluttered uncomfortably at the thought of leaving it behind. So he looked at John, because John always knew what to do. 

John squeezed his hand, and Dave reluctantly drew his hand away from the knife. “I’ll get my shoes on,” he said, and John beamed at him. He cracked a smile back at him, and went to grab his off-brand Converse.

So the weeks passed, slowly but surely, and the day they’d decided Dave would tell CPS was growing ever closer. August eighteenth. His journal was stuffed full, pages crumpled and filled with crumbs and tear stains. John had a new routine before the two of them fell asleep, Dave across the room on the pullout couch in John’s room, John in his bed. Every night, at 11:11 exactly, John reached over and patted the journal gently. One night (August 11th, eight days left) Dave shifted upright, watched John pat the journal. “Why do you always do that?” John jumped, startled, and grinned. 

“It’s 11:11! You make a wish at 11:11, and it’s supposed to come true. I want to do everything I can to help you, and wishing can’t hurt, can it?” Dave chuckled, and sat up more, then patted the journal himself.

“There. Double wish, double good luck.” John caught Dave’s hand in his own, running a thumb over his knuckles; something fluttered inside Dave’s general internal organs. 

“It’s 11:12 now, but I’m sure the thought has to count for something.” John drew his hand back, almost reluctantly, and Dave pulled back to lean against the fluffy pillow on the couch. “G’night, Dave. Sweet dreams.” 

“Night, Egbert.” A perfect echo. An easy, now-familiar routine. Dave laid awake until he heard John’s breath even out in sleep, and only then did he close his eyes.

The eight days passed far, far too quickly for his tastes. On August 18th, nine in the morning, Mr. Egbert knocked gently on the doorframe. “Boys, today’s the day,” he said softly, and Dave rolled over and out of the couch, tangled in the sheets. It had been a relatively sleepless night, haunted with thoughts of Bro, and swords, and blood. Not ideal sleep material. So when he’d finally managed to get to sleep, he’d been dead tired. As he sat and pushed a waffle around his plate, he hoped that he wouldn’t be dead-dead by the end of the day. 

Mr. Egbert brought the pair of them into the living room, and handed Dave the house phone; supposed to be more official, or something. John sat down on the couch on one side, Mr. Egbert on the other. A sandwich, with Dave in the middle, holding him still as every instinct told him to flee. So he took the phone from Mr. Egbert with shaky hands, and dialed the number he had memorized.

“Hello, you’re speaking to CPS. I’m Sarah. What can I help you with today?” Sarah’s voice was chipper, easygoing. You wouldn’t think she worked with abused kids every day. Dave only half-noticed when John grabbed his hand, smoothing a hand over his thumb. 

“Hi, Sarah, I would like to report a case of child abuse.” His voice cracked, and he winced. John made a sympathetic noise. But he had to keep going; he had to. 

“My name is David Clarence Strider, I am 15, I am transgender, and I am being abused by my biological father Dirk Strider.” Rehearsed, practiced, and still came out wobbly and wet. Too fast, too, near-stumbling over his words. It had taken so long to hunt down that information; Roxy from the Chinese place had come over to hack into the official smuppets website. 

“Okay, David. Can you please tell me more details about your situation right now?” Her voice was still cheery, but Dave could hear something behind it, a quiver of seriousness. He gulped, and John squeezed his hand tight

“I was raised by him with little to no food, or bad food when he remembered to go shopping. He would take me onto the roof from the age of maybe four or five and have swordfights with me,” that sounded bad, shit, he was gonna fuck this up, “with, like, actual swords. Sharp swords. I have a lot of scars, and I learned to bandage them myself. He made me call him Bro. I am currently living with my friend John Egbert and his father, Chris Egbert.” Still too fast, but steadier. Mr. Egbert squeezed his shoulder encouragingly, and he took a shuddering inhale. It felt like his lungs were filled with rocks, but he had to do this. He was getting out.

“What is your father’s address currently?” She asked, her tone completely different now. Sharp, decisive. Dave listed off his address, apartment number, and Bro’s last known job. “We’ll be there for a visit soon, most likely within the next three days. You stay at your friend’s house, okay?” He nodded, before remembering it was a phone call, and then croaked out an affirmation. He held the phone to his ear as the dial tone droned on, Sarah gone, until John leaned over and wrapped arms around him, holding him strong. 

“What happens now?” John asked into Dave’s shirt, voice muffled by cotton. 

“We wait. We can grab your stuff after the appointment, okay Dave?” Mr. Egbert asked, and Dave shook his head. He could feel himself verging on nonverbal, and he wanted to say something first.

“I want to be there. Want to see him get his shit wrecked by CPS.” John laughed, sounding almost fully like a laugh instead of crying, and Mr. Egbert smiled at him. 

“Okay. We can take you by tomorrow, and I’ll call to confirm the visit. And just so you know; we’re gonna be there the whole time. We won’t let him touch you.” Dave nodded, slumping back into John’s arms. He hummed softly, improvising a melody, and John rocked them back and forth slowly. “You’re going to be out of there before you know it,” Mr. Egbert said firmly, then stood up from the couch. “I used all our baking soda on those waffles, so I’m going to go and buy more. You boys good here?” John nodded, and Dave gave a thumbs-up. It was over. He’d done it. He’d started the absurdly hard climb on the plateau of escaping, and he was going to get there. But for now, he let his eyes fall closed as he scooted backwards so he and John were laying down on the couch, and let John’s heartbeat lull him to sleep. 

When Dave woke up, it wasn’t really a coherent reaction or memory that triggered the panic. It was the images his mind was flashing at him, like a Powerpoint presentation gone haywire. Swords, the shine of metal in the too-hot sun, rusty red on tile floors, the color orange, repeating over and over like a fucked-up mental carousel. So he fought his way out of John’s arms, heavy with sleep, until he ran to crouch in the corner of the living room, chest heaving. Binder. Binder probably needed to be off, but he couldn’t bear to think about that, about being so exposed and open when he was in so much danger. 

“Dave?” John said, voice rusty. “Dave, what’s wrong?” He shook his head, ragged breaths making his throat hurt. His mind was still screaming at him to run, to run away, to go grab his knife, but he had to fight it off. In some corner of his psyche, he knew he was safe. He knew Bro wasn’t here. He knew John wasn’t going to hurt him. But he still wanted to run, to flee, to get the fuck out of the situation the hyperactive alarm in his brain had dictated was dangerous. But then John was creeping towards him on all fours, shrinking down to the ground. Like he was trying to calm a startled deer. 

“Hey. It’s okay. He’s not here, alright? I promise.” Dave took another shuddering breath, a concentrated effort to make it slower. Passing out wasn’t fun, he knew, and wouldn’t be the ideal solution to this situation. But when John tried to reach for his hand, Dave found himself holding-nothing. He wasn’t holding anything, because his switchblade was in John’s room. He was just pointing, and then he pulled his hand away as quickly as he could, tucking it into the ball he’d curled himself into.

John sat back on his heels, and breathed deeply. His eyes were closed, hands steady, and he looked-peaceful was the only word Dave could conjure at the moment. He looked peaceful. Dave did his best to mimic the slow, calm breaths John was doing. It was only kind of working, but it was better than not at all working. 

After two solid minutes (Dave had been counting seconds) John turned around and grabbed something from under the TV stand. A soft blanket, one of those sherpa ones from Bed Bath and Beyond. He placed it silently next to him, then retreated to the kitchen. He quietly reached out and grabbed a hold of it, rubbing the fluff between his thumb and forefinger. 

John trotted back into the living room with a plate of apple slices a few minutes later, curling his legs into a pretzel on the floor next to Dave. He grabbed one slice, then nudged the plate towards Dave. He bit the end off of one, and John nodded approvingly. They sat like that for a few more minutes, trading slices back and forth. Splitting an apple in the least efficient way possible. 

“Better?” John asked as Dave grabbed for the last apple slice. “Can you talk now, or not yet?”

“Better. Words are hard, but I can do it.” He tapped his fingers aimlessly on the ceramic edge of the plate. 

“What happened? Did I do something wrong, or something?” Dave shook his head, rubbing the blanket softly.

“Bad dream. Not your fault, promise.” He pulled the blanket farther over himself, and huddled his back to the wall. 

“Wanna watch Con Air?” John suggested, and Dave picked up the blanket, shoved the apple in his mouth, and sat next to John on the carpet. 

“Go ahead, Egderp.” John smiled gleefully, and clicked the TV on. Dave settled back and grabbed John’s hand.


	16. Chapter 16

_Be home tomorrow at noon. Important._

That was what the first text Dave had sent to Bro in months said. Sent yesterday afternoon, read, and ignored. He could only hope Bro would actually show up. He and John stood on the doorstep, and Dave swung the door open.

It was the same as it always was. The shoerack, strewn with smuppets. Tacky wall hangings, empty chip bags, scraps of metal, stray wires. The stained living room carpet, the frayed couch, the chipped tile of the kitchen. And the final fixture was Bro, leaning against the kitchen counter, toying absently with the wicked sharp blade of Dave’s old katana, which looked absolutely tiny in his hands. “So, Dawn, finally decided to show up?” Oh god, he still never came out. He still hadn’t come out to Bro. And his deadname was being used now, to his face, and the only thing keeping him upright at the moment was John’s hand gripping his. “One last strife with your old man?” The small katana clattered to the ground, replaced by a far larger counterpart. 

Mr. Egbert stepped behind Dave, a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Strider, I am going to need you to drop the sword. CPS is going to be here to investigate you.” Mr. Egbert’s voice was decisive, leaving no room for debate. Bro gripped the sword and shoved his glasses higher on his nose. Instead of moving to brandish the sword at Mr. Egbert, Bro turned to Dave, staring right at him.

“So, Dawn, you decided it was a good idea to tell someone? It was your own fault you even got hurt, I never did anything someone your age couldn’t dodge if they weren’t in-fucking-competent.” Dave took a step back, shaking his head. He could almost feel the sword against him, feel it slice through him. 

John stepped in front of him, arms spread like he was ready to take a bullet, and the doorbell rang, a single smuppet falling from the ceiling and bouncing off of Dave’s head. In a second the sword was gone, the small katana no longer on the floor, and Mr. Egbert had run to the door before Bro, somehow. CPS was here. 

They stepped in, two agents, surveying the area. Dave wondered what it looked like to outside eyes. “Are you Mr. Strider?” One of the agents asked, a woman with a short bob of red hair.

“No, that over there is the man in question. Me and my son John are here to keep Dave safe.” The other agent scribbled something on a clipboard, blond hair falling across his face. Bro nodded cordially, the perfect picture of a respectable father figure. Dave shifted away as subtly as he could, and cringed when Bro’s eyes landed on him. 

“So, who’s Dave, exactly?” Bro asked smoothly, gaze trained on Dave’s face; he felt frozen, like a deer in the headlights of a car. A ridiculously huge car with a sword. John’s eyes darted back and forth between him and Bro.

“David, did you not tell your father you were trans?” The male agent’s face had softened considerably, and he crouched down to look Dave in the face. He shook his head and tried not to feel the fire of Bro’s eyes on the back of his head. 

“Dawn, this is bullsh-uh, crap. I haven’t done anything to you, and you know it,” Bro scoffed, and now it was the lady agent’s turn to write something. Any words he tried to say were getting stuck in his throat, so Dave opted for action, and pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. He and John had rehearsed this, and John knew it was his part.

The agents looked at the scars tracing over his arms, deep rivers of darkened skin. The man quietly asked permission before gently turning Dave’s arm back and forth, like someone would do with a sparkling stone held to the light. His one hand was shaking like a leaf in the wind, but the other was cradled in both of John’s. Safe. “Do you have any other scars?” The lady asked softly, and he nodded.

“Words are hard for Dave when he’s freaked out sometimes, so he might not talk a lot. Yes, he has other scars, pretty much everywhere.” The woman scratched furiously on her clipboard, and the man turned to Dave, asking if he could lift his shirt up. He nodded and tried to control his breathing.

“Y’know, you don’t know those aren’t self-inflicted,” Bro drawled from across the room. Dave’s head shot up, and his shirt slipped back down; the man must have gotten enough evidence though, because he simply ignored Bro’s comment and continued with the woman on their check. “She’s just a girl, after all. Not more than 16, are ya, Dawn? Kids are young and dumb, or something.” John rolled Dave’s sleeves down and made quiet, soothing noises. 

“Mr. Strider, why is your fridge full of swords?” The woman asked, stepping back from the now-open fridge to showcase the gleaming metal inside, and Dave flinched. 

“Prop swords. Nothin’ dangerous.” His face was that same calm, perfect mask that Dave had come to know from the rooftops. He was hiding his anger. Bro was fucking furious. The agent reached out to grab one, and then wheeled around, finger dripping blood.

“These don’t look like props, Mr. Strider.” She turned to Mr. Egbert again, flipping to a new page on her clipboard. “May we have your number, Mr…”

“Egbert.”

“Mr. Egbert, may we have your number so we can contact you when Dave’s situation is reviewed? I understand you are a registered foster parent.” Mr. Egbert scribbled his number on the page, and she summoned the other agent, who had put his clipboard down to examine the swords in the fridge. “Dave, we’re going to head out now, okay? You are under no obligation to stay here any longer.” Bro’s hand landed heavily on the small of Dave’s back, and he jumped.

“Actually, I wanna talk to Dawn. No funny business, y’all can stay right outside the door. Just haven’t seen her in a while.” The agents nodded hesitantly, and John whispered quiet encouragement in Dave’s ear before slipping out. Dave turned to find Bro raised to his full height, towering above him, a sword poised in his hand to slice. “You little shit,” he hissed, teeth gritted, and Dave tried to back away.

A hand was balled in his shirt and he was against the wall, pinned by too-strong hands that would definitely bruise. He fought for breath, and Bro pressed the blade of the sword against his throat. “Didn’t learn your lesson, did ya, princess? Thought you could get away with it?” He was whispering in his ear, breath hot and rancid, and Dave choked on fear and cigarette smoke. Then, a camera click. Bro froze, head swiveling to look at the door; the male agent was there, phone in hand. 

“Mr. Strider, I’m going to have to ask you to put Dave down. The police will be arriving soon.” His voice was calm and collected, but his hands were trembling. Bro let go of Dave and he tumbled to the floor, wincing and holding a hand lightly to his throat. A tiny slice. No bigger than a blade of grass. He felt the tears pricking his eyes. 

He was crying by the time John busted in the door, running over to him, oblivious to Bro being held in a chokehold by the female agent. Just sat next to him and asked to hug him, before wrapping Dave in his arms and rocking him back and forth, smothering kisses into the top of his head. Dave felt tears soaking into his hair, but he didn’t care at that point. 

He was sobbing when the police arrived, taking Bro into custody for aggravated assault. Sobbing in the Egbert’s car on the way home, sobbing in the IHOP they stopped at. The waiters looked a little worried, but Mr. Egbert just ordered more pancakes and shook his head. Sobbing when they got to the Egberts, sobbing when they watched a Disney movie. He hadn’t cried this much in years. 

Finally, near six at night, the tears seemed to peter out, and he leaned back against John’s chest. “C’mon, let’s get you out of your binder and into a shower, okay?” He said, and Dave nodded, exhausted. John swooped him up into his arms, and Dave leaned his head into his shoulder, locking his ankles around the small of John’s back. It was nice. The blue cotton was soft on his face, and John smelled familiar and comforting. Like cinnamon candles and pine trees. LIke home. He was humming something, something Dave knew, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. 

“John?” He mumbled into his shoulder.

“Mm?” 

“Are you humming Undertale music?” John laughed softly, and Dave could feel the vibrations in his own chest. 

“Ma-aybe!” Dave chuckled, and John hoisted him up higher. “Listen, it’s great music! And you’re the one who recognized it, so.” He dropped him on the bed, and walked out, closing the door partially before sticking his head back in. “Wanna watch another movie when you get out?” He gave a thumbs up, and John slipped out. Dave grinned at the closing door, something in his chest fluttering erratically.


	17. Chapter 17

Within the week, Bro was in jail, what with the right of a speedy trial and the gauze wrapped around Dave’s neck, and the photo evidence. Mr. Egbert had gotten his confirmation to be Dave’s foster home, and so, they did the only logical thing they could. They had a bitchin’ party.

There were at least seven cakes, with seven different ice cream flavors, and party hats snapped onto heads. Rose and Jade videochatted for four hours straight, played Halo with them both, and talked. Dave ate half a cake by himself. John ate an entire quart of ice cream. God only knows what happened to the rest of the food, because it was gone at the end of the day. When the party was over for the most part, John haded Dave a small box, wrapped in colorful flowered paper. “I wanted to get you a welcome home gift, and it took me a long freakin’ time to find these, so you better appreciate it!” Dave took the box and shook it lightly; something rattled inside.

“Wait.” In the box was a packet of hair bleach, a picture of Ben Stiller, and a pair of shades with a small signature on the edge of the left lens. “Are these Ben Stiller’s shades?” John nodded gleefully, and Dave pulled his old triangular ones off, slipping the new rounded rectangle ones over his eyes. He didn’t have to worry about poking his fingers on the sides of his own glasses anymore. “What about this?” He lifted the box of bleach.

“You’ve been saying for months you want to dye your hair, dude. This is the way we start.” Dave grinned, and pulled John into a tight hug. “Tomorrow, then? Bright and early?” Dave nodded, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. That night as Dave laid awake in bed, John said his name from across the room. “Dave?” 

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad too.”

“G’night Dave!” John said as he turned over in his bed.

“Night, John. Sweet dreams.” Dave rolled over on the sofa and, for once, drifted to sleep almost easily. 

It didn’t last, though, because he bolted awake in a cold sweat and a hoarse wheezing in his throat. He fumbled for his thigh; the wound was still closed, had been for years. He tried to breathe; it kind of helped. “Dave? You awake?” John murmured sleepily from his bed, and Dave fought with his mind to speak. He could talk now, he was safe. 

“Yeah,” he managed to croak out, and John’s bed creaked as he sat up. 

“Would cuddles help or make it worse?” He asked, and Dave paused to consider before he climbed up onto the bed and leaned his head on John’s shoulder. “Help, then. This okay?” He wrapped an arm around his shoulder and Dave leaned into it, sighing quietly. 

“C’mon, lay down. It’s late, we should at least try and sleep.” John laid down and Dave clambered over to the other side, so his back was to the wall. “Any reason for that?” John rolled over to look at him, and Dave smiled. 

“Feels safe. Protected.” He scooched closer to John, and John’s arms laced around the back of his neck. “Tell me a secret, John,” he whispered, in his best sleepover voice, and John laughed.

“Alright, if it’ll make you feel better.” He sighed deeply, then turned to meet Dave’s eyes. “When I tell you this, I am being completely serious. Dead serious, Dave.” Dave nodded eagerly; this had to be good. “Okay. My secret is, I eat orange peels.” 

“What?”

“You heard me, Stridork. They’re tasty.” He huffed, crossing his arms.

“But why? What made you do that?”

“Because they’re tasty! You should try them sometime.” He rolled his eyes and turned back to Dave, replacing his arms on the back of Dave’s neck. 

“John?”

“Mhm?” 

“I can’t sleep. Tell me a story?”

“You haven’t even tried!”

“Jooooohn! Please?”

John paused, brows knit, then he laced his fingers together against Dave’s neck and grinned.

“Okay. Long ago, two races ruled over earth; humans, and monsters.” Dave groaned.

“If you’re going to tell me the Undertale opening, then I take it back.” John smiled again, wider, and pressed a quick kiss to Dave’s forehead before freezing.

“Uh-sorry, instinct, I, just-” Dave laughed, shushing him quietly.

“It’s fine, dude. Platonic head smooches between bros. S’all good.” John chuckled, and Dave cuddled closer to tangle their legs together. His head ended up on John’s chest, heartbeat thudding in his ears. “Now go to sleep. I’ll wake you up if I need you, okay?” John nodded and stroked an idle hand down Dave’s head, petting through his hair. Dave smiled and closed his eyes.

\--

Dave was sixteen years old, and tearing away the colorful wrapping paper from a box. “Dave, I really hope you like this one; I think you will.” Mr. Egbert was smiling widely at him. He pulled it out and gasped, staring at the box. A red 3DS, the full set, the whole thing. He’d been lusting after one of these for months, but he never thought he’d actually get one. 

“Dave, don’t cry yet! Here, here, open this one!” John thrust a small bag at him and Dave sniffed loudly, before pulling out the tissue paper. A brand-new copy of Pokemon Sun stared up at him, Solgaleo roaring triumphantly. 

“You guys,” he whimpered, and John hugged him excitedly. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” He scrubbed at his eyes, shades off, trying to pretend like he wasn’t crying from happiness. Joh just patted him on the back.

“C’mon, let’s go get you set up! I’m a Pokemon master, so I’ll show you the ropes!” Dave let John drag him by the hand upstairs, and Mr. Egbert waved goodbye cheerily.

\--

Dave was awake on Christmas morning, bouncing up and down, partly from nerves, partly from excitement. John had shaken him out of a hazy dream and handed him a pair of slippers, and told him to come downstairs. So Dave was standing at the top of the stairs in a pair of fuzzy slippers shaped like reindeer, and wondering whether he was brave enough to go down. Steeling his will, he slid his shades on and trotted downstairs, the bells on his slippers jingling loudly. 

“Merry Christmas, Dave! C’mon, we’re dealing out the presents now, and your pile looks lonely!” He sat down next to where John pointed, next to a pile of colorfully wrapped gifts. He stared at them. What was the etiquette here? What was he supposed to do?

“John, we’ll go youngest to oldest, so you’ll open one, then Dave, then me. Good?” Mr. Egbert explained, and Dave gave a slight smile. Good ol’ Mr. Egbert.

At the end of the day, the best present Dave had gotten was the duck onesie, of which John had a matching one. John hated it, but Dave? Dave had found his true love. And he forced Mr. Egbert to take pictures of him and John wearing them, because they needed a wedding album, goddamnit. He was tying this onesie down.

That night, Dave crawled onto the futon, still in the onesie, and barely three minutes later John jumped onto the couch, in his onesie, eyes wide. “Need something, or just come to stare at me?” Dave asked, shifting upwards in bed. John bounced excitedly. 

“Dave, I can’t sleep! Do you want to go for a walk or something?” Dave nodded, shoving John off the bed and laughing. 

“Are we changing out of onesies or nah?” John shook his head, pulling on shoes; Dave followed suit, then scribbled a note on the counter should Mr. Egbert wake up and find them missing. So David Clarence Strider spent his first real Christmas night out on the town, throwing birdseed at ducks, in a duck onesie. Silent, holy, all that jazz. 

\--

“Dave, are you really sure this is a good idea?” John said, clutching the edges of the canoe with both hands, his brown knuckles turning lighter with how hard he was gripping it.

“Yes, Egbert, I can drive, I’m pretty damn sure I can pilot some stupid canoe!” He yelled back, not taking his eyes off the choppy water in front of him.

“The term is sailing, not piloting, and this proves my point that you don’t know how to do this!” John half-screamed, flinching away from a stray wave. Dave didn’t pay attention; the shore was coming up, very quickly, and the water was slopping into the boat at rapid speed. He was trying to remember how to turn so they wouldn’t get beached, but the paddles weren’t cooperating, so he handed them to John (“What the hell do I do with these?”) and started splashing water out of the boat. They were definitely getting into rapids territory, and he didn’t want to drown alone, or, even worse, with John. 

“Dave! We’re flipping!” John real-screamed this time, and the boat tipped over. Dave felt himself go under, felt the water take him over. His feet scrabbled under the waves for any sort of purchase, before a paddle lightly tapped him on the head.

“Boys, you do know the lake is only about knee-high, right?” Mr. Egbert paddled up smoothly next to them, his canoe perfectly steady. The light wind died down and the lake settled as Dave and John resurfaced, sputtering. 

“This is why I didn’t want to go on the canoe with you, Dave,” John groaned, and Dave stuck his tongue out, grabbing for his paddles. 

“You’re just jealous I’m a better boat pilot.” John rolled his eyes, but reluctantly handed over the paddles.

\--

“John, get your dumb butt over here and help me light these sparklers,” Dave called from across the field. John trotted over, arms full of black-eyed susans. 

“C’mon, we can make flower crowns and watch the fireworks!” He flopped onto the blanket they’d laid out, dumping the blossoms over the fabric, and started to braid them together. Dave sat next to him and pulled out a box of sparklers, picking up the long lighter from the blanket and setting the sparkler alight. 

“Look. Cool Fourth of July aesthetic.” John laughed, plucking a single petal off a flower and throwing it onto Dave’s head. “Jerk. When do the fireworks start?” They’d chosen this field for its nearly-unobstructed view of the firework spot, and fewer people, instead of the high school field where they were actually being launched.

“Should be in a few minutes. Enough for me to finish this crown, at least.” He stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, concentrating on the flowers in his lap. Dave grabbed a petal and singed the edge of it.

“Here. Now you’re beautiful.” John plopped the crown onto his head, and Dave adjusted it, then tucked a flower behind John’s ear.

“I was always beautiful, this just accentuates it. Now shush, I think they’re starting.” Dave huddled closer to John and waved his sparkler enthusiastically. John pulled one from the box and lit it against Dave’s and they sat, pressed together in the quiet of the summer night, and watched the fireworks explode in the sky. 

\--

Dave stood against the base of the tree, the bucket held in his hands outstretched. “You’re gonna bruise them, fucknut, be careful!” John, perched in the tree like a squirrel, scoffed, and tossed three apples into the basket with a hearty thunk. “Isn’t there an easier way to get these?” 

“Yeah, but this is fun! You can climb the next one, promise!” John twisted off a few more apples, and Dave grimaced as he wobbled in the tree. 

“Shit, dude, don’t-” 

“AGH!” His warning was a little too late, because John tumbled out of the tree, hitting at least six branches on the way down. He finally landed in a heap at Dave’s feet, two apples shaken loose in the fall hitting him gently. “Ow.”

“Told you it was a bad idea, dude. C’mon, let’s go pick apples like normal people.” He offered him a hand, and John grabbed for it, hoisting himself up from the ground. “You have dirt on your ass, by the way,” Dave said as John walked in front of him, trying not to limp. 

“Why were you looking at my ass, anyway?”

“I couldn’t tell if it was your face for a minute.” John snickered, and chucked an apple at Dave.

\--

Another birthday, gift cards from John and Mr. Egbert, a box of knitted goods from Rose, a bunch of potted plants from Jade. A night spent watching movies, and he climbed into the futon at the end of the night, hoping for some restful sleep. Obviously, it didn’t come.

Dave shot into wakefulness with the image of Bro’s eyes, uncovered, staring right through him. He shook his head, like he was trying to physically dispel the image. Then he went and shook John awake. Over the past few months, this had become a routine; one of them woke up, couldn’t sleep, and then woke the other for a late night walk. “Dave?” He shook harder, words not coming to him quite yet.

“Walk?” John asked, and Dave nodded, tugging on John’s wrist. He climbed out of bed, rubbing his eyes and grabbing his glasses, handing Dave his shades; they were a good thing to have when he was freaked out, like he could hide just a little bit. Safe. 

John left a note on the counter, grabbed the bag of birdseed, and they headed out. Their hands brushed against each other’s and ended up intertwined, and Dave swung them back and forth as the pair walked. “Park?” John asked, and Dave nodded again.

So they ended up at the small river in the park, leaning over the edge of the wooden bridge, John’s feet on the first rung of the barrier as Dave tossed birdseed in and the ducks swooped in to eat it. “Shouldn’t they have migrated by now?” He asked, and John grabbed a handful and showered it into the water.

“Maybe. Don’t know a lot about ducks, so who knows?” He watched the ducks peck up the seeds and swung his pajamaed arms over the edge. John turned to him, leaning forward. “Wanna play Poohsticks?” 

“Do I wanna play what now?” He asked, sprinkling more seeds down as the ducks quacked appreciatively. John gasped loudly.

“Didn’t you ever read Winnie the Pooh?” He asked, incredulous. 

“No? I mostly liked dinosaurs, and Bro never got me actual books.” John ran off the bridge, and came back with two sticks; one short and one long and twiggy. 

“Okay, well you’re gonna learn to play! So, choose a stick.” Dave pulled the long one from John’s hands and snapped off some twigs while John went to the other side of the bridge and leaned over. “Then, we drop our sticks at the same time so the water carries it downstream, and whoever’s stick comes out on the other side first wins!” John was very obviously excited to do this; his eyes were sparkling behind his glasses, and he was grinning ear to ear. Dave practically felt his heart melt, which couldn’t signify anything good, but he ignored it in favor of leaning over the bridge, stick poised in hand. “On three, okay? One, two, three!” The branches hit the water with a quiet splash, and John ran to the other side to lean over, feet hooked under the first rung, and look into the water. 

“I think I won,” Dave said, and John punched him good-naturedly. It wasn’t Dave’s fault his stick was just superior; maybe all the twigs made it better at navigating the slight currents. But instead of trying to fight the point, he just took in John’s smile and went to help gather more sticks.

\--

“Thith ith thuch a terrible idea,” John said through a mouthful of sunflower butter, and Dave smacked him with one sunflower-butter-covered hand.

“You aren’t supposed to eat it, idiot! Birdfeeders aren’t for people.” He rolled his sunbutter covered pinecone vigorously in the plate of birdseed. John rolled his eyes and started coating another pinecone.

“Whatever. You sure you saw those deer? Cuz that’d be really cool if they started coming here to eat these things!” Dave held his cone to the light, twisting it back and forth. 

“Sure as hell, dude. A whole pack of ‘em. Herd. Crew. A murder of deer.” John snatched the plate of birdseed, laughing. 

“A gaggle of deer. A murmuration of deer. A conspiracy of deer.” Dave giggled, grabbing a second pinecone.

“What animals do those names even apply to? Those have to be fake!” John shook his head, turning and smearing a finger of sunbutter on Dave’s cheek. 

“Respectively, those titles belong to geese, starlings, and lemurs,” He announced, rolling his cone in the birdseed. “Hand me the twine?” Dave tossed the twine across the table, which meant it was definitely covered in sunbutter by the time John had a firm grip on it. 

“Smooth, Egderp,” Dave said, grinning as John unwound the now-sticky twine. 

“Thought we agreed to leave that name in freshman year, Dave!” John groaned, and Dave tried his best not to reach out and grab his face and-okay, train of thought has stopped, passengers should exit immediately as there is a brand new destination on the way, far from wherever they had veered into just now. Dave just handed John the scissors to cut the twine instead. Nothing else.

\--

Dave raised his arms as high as they could go, which, when you’re 5’6”, isn’t all that high. In his hands was a colorful stingray kite, tails flapping in the little wind there was. John was unrolling a spool of kite string, a handle clasped firmly in his other hand. “Okay, when I say go, you let go, okay? I know there’s not a lot of wind, but this baby is gonna fly, just you wait!” Dave nodded, tightening his grip on the structure. 

John took off running down the field where they had watched the fireworks last year, reeling in a bit of slack as he went. “Okay, now go!” He yelled when he was a good distance away, still running, and Dave chucked the kite in his general direction. It fluttered to the ground and John yelled something encouraging at it, running faster and tugging on the string as he went. Dave could only watch in amazement as a single miraculous gust of wind brought the kite off the ground again, and with John’s insistent tugging on the line, it rose into the air and, for a few glorious moments, it flew.

Until it nosedived directly into the ground again and John made a sad noise. “Maybe we should come back when there’s more wind?” Dave yelled. John plodded back over dejectedly. “C’mon, let’s go get Starbucks instead.” John nodded, and half-heartedly picked up the fallen kite and tossed it.

“Hey, wait!” He cried as the kite soared into the sky in a disorganized loop, and yanked at the string until it settled, flying shakily in the slight breeze. 

“Well I’ll be damned. That thing got off the ground.” Dave shielded his eyes from the sun and watched with John as the stingray danced in the sky. 

\--

Dave woke up to John’s earnest face in front of him, glasses smudged. “Can we go on a walk?” He glanced at the clock; only two AM. Earlier than John normally realized he couldn’t sleep.

“Lemme grab pants, then we can head.” John nodded and turned away, and Dave shimmied into a pair of exercise shorts, before tapping John on the shoulder and leading him into the kitchen to leave their note.

LIke most of the time, they ended up at the park. It was a warm June night, and fireflies were blinking over the outdated, rusted equipment. Dave held the swing chains loosely as John kicked up mulch next to him.

“Dave?” John said, dragging the tips of his toes through the mulch. Dave turned, flicking his shades onto the top of his head.

“What’s up?” John had him out here for a reason, that much was obvious; his eyes were on the mulch, fingers clenched tightly on the chains of the swing. He was worried. 

“Dave, I think I’m in love with you.” His words echoed on the summer air amidst the clinking of swing chains. The only sounds for a few heartbeats was the low hum of cicadas and the gentle whispering of the wind through the trees. 

“Are you mad?” He asked, turning to face Dave, eyes earnest and wide. He looked terrified. “Do you hate me now?”

“I could never hate you, John.” A pause, where John’s fingers danced across the chains anxiously and Dave pumped his legs absently. “Can I kiss you?” John’s head shot up, and Dave met his eyes with level view. 

“What?” 

“Can I kiss you?” He asked again, because his hands had started to shake and it was all he could think of to do. Because saying I love you, John. I’m in love with you. Have been for three years. Was too lengthy and terrifying to vocalize, so he settled for jumping out of the swing and walking over to John, placing one hand as confidently as he could on John’s cheek, trying not to tremble. 

John nodded, managing to breathe out “Yeah,” his eyes reflecting the glow of the fireflies. Dave brought his face closer, and then pressed his lips to John’s, eyes fluttering closed. John grabbed his hand, fingers twitching, and Dave grabbed them, holding him steady. He was sweet, like popsicles. Like summer days and cicada-filled nights and watermelon-scented afternoons. 

John pulled back just a bit, his lips still close to Dave’s, so close that they were breathing the same air. “Wow,” he breathed, barely a whisper.

“Wow,” Dave agreed, lacing the fingers of his other hand with John’s. “What now?” John cracked a small smile, shrugging.

“What are we now, Dave?” Dave pressed a kiss to John’s temple, then to his hairline. Gave him a loving smile.

“We’re us, John. What else have we ever been?”

**Author's Note:**

> this took a while to make. hope yall like it. also, fucknut is a very fun insult and i highly recocmend it.


End file.
